Past Time
by Ijemanja
Summary: Cuddy, House, the things that change, and the things that don't. CuddyHouse


Notes: This is set in the future, post-show.

Pairing: Cuddy/House with some Cuddy/Foreman, House/Cameron, and a tiny bit of House/Wilson, depending on how you read it

**Past Time**

by Ijemanja

* * *

_You may never be or have a husband_

_You may never have or hold a child_

_You will learn to lose everything but your temporary arrangements  
_

(Alanis Morissette, 'No Pressure Over Cappuccino')

*

"Why?" she will ask, while his fingers pluck idly at the hem of her sleeve.

She'll remain looking straight ahead, won't turn towards him, won't know quite what to do with herself. She has never trusted him farther than she can throw him, and she won't be about to start now.

And besides, she'll think, he's put on weight recently.

*

He's been different lately.

This is what occurs to her when he shows himself for the first time all day just as she is getting ready to leave, and suggests they carpool.

"You're not coming," she says in disbelief, but then realises she shouldn't be surprised.

Because he's been different lately, and at first she couldn't put her finger on what it was, exactly, that had changed. But now she sees it, how engaged he is, how likely it is he's about to do or say something wildly inappropriate. It's the kind of thing she never thought she could miss.

Of course, he hasn't come bursting into her office in a long time, either.

"What, and miss my protégé's coming out party?" He holds up her coat and she lets him help her on with it, albeit a little warily.

"Does Foreman know you call him that?"

"I'm as proud as a Mama Bear could be. Everything he is today, he owes to me, you know."

"I think he'd say he got where he is today despite your influence, not because of it."

"He's always been an ingrate," House says cheerfully as he precedes her through the door. "Remind me to spill something on him and make it look like an accident."

*

After an appropriate amount of mingling - a quantifiable factor she's become adept at judging - she goes looking for the man who gained a prestigious second speciality working under the great Greg House.

It's served him well, for all that he's the only one still here from those glory days when House was making her hospital famous and everyone around him miserable. He and House are even friends, after a fashion. It's not the same - Eric Foreman never has and never will put up with much in the way of abuse. Or intimacy for that matter. They're probably good for each other in some small way, she thinks, but still. It's not the same.

And as for the ones who have come and gone since - House's current solitary team-member has lasted four months, but the signs of impending resignation are all there. Just the other day she'd asked Eric to talk to the girl, buckling under the full weight of House's attention. It's a role he's eminently suited to play - like the after shot in a before and after promotion for weight loss. All the suffering really is worth it.

When she finds him, he is in a corner with a plastic cup and a handful of napkins, and probably would not agree with the sentiment.

"House," he spits with a level of exasperation she has come to associate with the man almost by rote, "Threw a glass of red wine at me."

"I'm sure he didn't do it on purpose," she murmurs, trying not to smile too much as she takes over dabbing at his shirt. His suit is dark, fortunately, so the stain doesn't show too badly.

"Oh no, it was on purpose. Some kind of hazing ritual, I'm assuming, or else just his screwed up sense of humour. Congratulations young padawan, on joining me in the exalted ranks of department head, and then oops, a little soda water will get that right out."

"One of his rare instances of being completely wrong, I'm afraid." She winces. The stain is not lifting, and he rolls his eyes and buttons his jacket back up. "Well, ruined shirt aside, how does it feel?"

"Like I earned it," he says, irritation giving way to humour.

She doesn't disagree, he's put in hard work, the long hours and dedication, but she knows from experience the battles hardest won are the most satisfying. And looking at Eric, she sees a satisfied man. She can't spare him too much sympathy.

"You should be back out there with your guests," she tells him, and he agrees, pausing to touch her arm, discreetly, just above the elbow.

"Let me know if you need a ride home."

She looks away, across the crowded room. She's thinking about it. Certainly it's been pleasant enough in the past - certainly she doesn't blame him for making the offer, but, "Thanks, I drove. And I'll try not to let the open bar go to my head."

He squeezes her arm lightly, amused, not offended. "I guess if anyone needs a ride tonight, it'll be him."

He's seen where her gaze has landed, seen House, seated now with another drink - no wine this time - and his own personal waiter to harass, by the look of it.

"I'm surprised he even came." Eric sobers suddenly, his tone lowering and she tenses in response. She really didn't want to think about this tonight. "He doesn't know yet, does he."

She doesn't answer. House wouldn't be sitting there in a more or less harmless capacity, happily interrogating wait staff if he knew.

"It'll be better coming from you than his next gossip session with the orderlies," Eric tells her.

"Nothing's final yet." She shrugs weakly. "The board doesn't sit again till the new year."

"Lisa." He's shaking his head and she holds up a hand.

"I _know_."

She really didn't want to think about this tonight.

He sighs, and releases her arm. "There's Alan," he says. "I should go say hi."

"Yes, you should."

"It's nice when they go quietly, isn't it?" As parting shots go, it's a good one.

She watches him greet their recently retired head of neurology and brings a hand up to her arm. She hadn't realised he'd been holding on to her all that time.

*

"Leaving early, that's a good sign. Home, Jeeves."

He's followed her back to her car and she's suddenly reluctant to face him, not looking up as she digs for her keys. "You'll have to mooch off someone else. I'm heading back to the hospital."

"That's what I meant. The original party girl doesn't leave early unless the booze runs out or she gets a better offer. Or she gets a call from work and spends the next five minutes trying not to yell at whoever is ruining her evening. Where else would you be going?"

She watches him climb in on the passenger side and she shouldn't ever be surprised to find he's been paying attention to her, but somehow she almost always is.

In the car, she tries to relax. The drive is mostly silent until they near the hospital.

Then he says, "I could tell you not to worry about it, but you will anyway. And I could thank you for that, but I won't - it's pathetic, not gratifying."

And she realises he knows he's about to be fired.

Not fired, exactly, but his tenure is up for review and it's no surprise which direction the board is leaning. He's seeing less patients than ever, he hasn't been publishing and though he's causing less trouble it's only because he just doesn't seem to care as much anymore.

He can consult, she's been telling herself, and he can teach and write. And that's what he'll do because she won't give him any other option.

You don't get a choice in this, she'll tell him, and won't care how much he hates her for not trying harder. It's for your own good, she'll say when the time comes.

Right now, though, she says, "I'm sorry."

"Not that sorry."

She looks over to see his hand clenching on his thigh, a habit he's never lost.

"No."

She thinks: I never used to be such a bully.

But maybe that isn't true.

*

Allison Cameron's exit interview was unfailingly polite. Mostly.

"Seattle. You know, there's always Alaska if you wanted to get even further away without actually leaving the country."

"Or Hawaii, but I'm allergic to pineapples." Cameron smiled tightly.

She couldn't quite bring herself to return the gesture.

Things had never been easy between them. Tension, and a kind of rivalry she always thought they were far too good for, characterised the majority of their encounters. At that moment, though, for some reason she felt like she was being abandoned.

"You'll enjoy working with Lewalski. She's very good."

"I know. I was surprised I got the job, at first. The other applicants all held more senior positions, from what I hear."

"At first?"

Cameron looked down. It was the first sign of any discomfort on her part. "He wrote me a reference, sent it along without telling me - I didn't even bother asking. He used... glowing terms. It doesn't make this any easier, which is exactly why he did it, of course. It's just the way he is."

Cameron shrugged, somewhat awkwardly, but didn't seem to have any trouble meeting her eyes. And there was very little she could say in reply. Not that she wouldn't regret, anyway. So she extended her hand.

"Good luck, Dr Cameron."

*

Late at night, lights dimmed and the halls quiet, she finds him in the geriatrics ward and somehow she's not surprised. It's the holiday season and there are few more depressing places to be, where most of their long-term patients won't leave, and too many lie in their beds day after day without so much as a card, let alone any visitors.

The small lounge area is festooned with red and gold garland and cardboard cut-outs of menorahs and reindeer, but the valiant efforts of her staff only seem to emphasize the distinct lack of cheer. There's an old black and white movie on the small set, nothing she recognises, and she leans over the back of an empty chair to watch for a few minutes.

"Shouldn't you be off trimming your Hanukkah bush?"

She wonders if he meant for that to sound as filthy as it did. She looks over, sees the faint smirk - yes, of course he did.

For a moment she considers being offended, but after everything she's forgiven him over the years, one more sexually laden comment doesn't rate much of a response. "Hanukkah was over days ago," she informs him.

She saw her family on the weekend. The kids so much more grown up, as they are every time she sees them. It's never often enough.

She doesn't bother asking after his father, or whether this, here, is the extent of his holiday plans. She knows, just as he knows why she's here after midnight on Christmas eve - Christmas day, now.

"How's the eggnog?"

"It's the good kind," he confirms as she comes around the chair and reaches for the carton. And by that she assumes he means largely alcoholic. "Now shush. I like this part."

She drinks in silence. She feels like it's the least she can do.

*

He's waiting in her office, afterward. If he was expecting an eleventh-hour reprieve, it doesn't show. He looks much as he ever has, sitting there across from her desk, scruffy and rumpled and bored.

She sits down, and all the things she planned to say seem as useless and tired as she feels. She waits for him to speak first, which he does eventually.

"So," he says, "Now I have to think about what I'm going to do next. Or who - that sounds like more fun." He shrugs, tilting his head to the side. "You want to come home with me?"

She opens her mouth, closes it. Sighs. "What, for old time's sake? For the hell of it, or is it just one for the road."

"We do have to negotiate the terms of my retirement package..."

"Well why don't we just go at it, right here on the desk, then?" She rolls her eyes and reaches for her purse. "I'm willing to buy you a drink."

"In exchange for putting me out of a job? That sounds fair."

"For old time's sake."

*

"House."

When Cameron left, she remembered a lot of noise and drinking, terrorising of staff and patients - the kind of downward spiral House was famous for. If she hadn't been three thousand miles away, Cuddy could have happily strangled Cameron with her bare hands for the mess she'd left behind.

This time, she didn't know what happened, didn't know who to blame. She received a kiss on the cheek and a promise to call and no explanation, and then this. House, sitting in the clinic waiting area for the past five hours.

"House. What are you doing?"

He nodded up at the television mounted in the corner. He wasn't watching it when she first saw him, and he wasn't watching it now. She sat down beside him.

"What are you doing _here_."

"Where else should I be?"

"Home, in your office, working? Pick one."

"Can't. I'm busy."

Busy bouncing his cane on the floor and looking so completely pathetic she would have hugged him if she weren't so annoyed. And if he weren't House. It wasn't even him she was angry with, of course, but that hardly mattered.

"You look like a vagrant. And you smell like one. Patients are freaked out and the nurses are considering a show of force."

"The aesthetics of our pristine waiting environments must be preserved at all costs." There wasn't any feeling behind it, not even the hint of a sneer. He sighed. "I'll get out of your way."

"House," she protested, helpless as she ever felt around him.

"Don't worry," he told her, on his feet now and looking down at her from an even greater height than usual. "I'll get over it. I always do, don't I?"

"Hardly ever, actually."

He'd never gotten over anything in his life that she recalled. But he just smiled slightly, his expression almost gentle, before switching his cane to his other hand and turning towards the front doors. And she almost believed he would get over it, just this once.

*

She doesn't hear from him for a week, which also happens to be the amount of time she can resist the urge to check up on him. When she knocks on his door she can hear him moving around on the other side, and when it eventually opens he's wearing his coat, forcing her to back up as he steps outside.

"If I let you in you'll just try to tidy up or feed me or something."

She doesn't ask him what he's been doing or mention the glimpse she caught of his too-neat apartment through the partly open door, and follows him out onto the street.

They go to a different bar this time. More crowded, vaguely sleazy, she let him pick.

"You think about me far more than can possibly be healthy." He makes the accusation casually and tosses a peanut in the air to catch in his mouth.

"Yeah, what's that about?" She traces the edge of her napkin with a fingertip and can't exactly deny it.

"Unless you've got a good enough excuse. Then you can pass off even the weirdest obsession as legitimate concern."

There was this fear he might seem smaller away from the hospital. It's a relief and she finds herself smiling with her chin in her hand.

"I'm your doctor," she offers.

"You're fired," he replies.

*

"You won't go away."

A sports bar this time, shiny and bright, with wide screens and memorabilia on the walls, and his cane resting across the table between them.

She sips her beer and gives him a well-worn, withering glare. "I'm so sorry I care if you live or die."

"I'm just saying, this isn't what I'm used to. Stacy left me twice. Tried to make it work with Cameron and _she_ left. Even Chase ran off in the end."

"You didn't sleep with him, too, did you?"

"Only because he would have liked it too much. And because he was like the son I never wanted, so it would've just been weird. And don't think I don't know you're trying to lure him back. He could never fill my shoes - he's a crappy diagnostician, and he's got freakishly small feet. I'd be forced to go back to that pit of despair and misery every day just to heckle him."

"Eric told you?"

"_Foreman._ I'd have a go at him you know, but he'd just belt me one, or make me his bitch. Or both, and I'd probably like that too much."

There's no mention of anyone else - the one name that belongs on this list above any other. It's something he doesn't talk about it and she isn't feeling mean enough try and make him.

"Besides," he adds, "Who wants your sloppy seconds, anyway?"

She sighs. Reaches for her glass again. "What's your point?"

"You're the last man standing - I'm interested, what does that say about Lisa Cuddy?"

"You're here. If I'm the last man standing, it's because you let me be. What does that say about you?"

"You mean, besides revealing my secret self-loathing?" He tilts his head thoughtfully to one side. "Nope, that about does it."

"Uh-huh." It certainly does.

She was there when he emerged from exam room two, and she clapped as he leaned over the desk to sign out.

"A lot of women respond with applause when I appear," he said. "So what's your excuse?"

"You did it, you're all caught up. Congratulations."

"I'm free," he said, trying the words on for size.

"Well, you're back on normal rotation like the rest of us. We'll see you back down here in a few weeks."

"Hmm. I think I'm coming down with something messy and contagious that day."

But he seemed to say it more out of habit than anything, and she knew he would turn up for his shift a predictable ten minutes late and sit bored and unengaged through a slow-moving stream of uninteresting patients.

She watched him go, wondering why she expected this moment to be a little more, well, momentous. It wasn't exactly the end of an era, however, if nothing really changed.

*

"New decor. Good choice, goes with the whole 'out with the old, in with the new' theme you're going with lately."

While it's not the first time she's had her office refurbished, she's never made such a big change, from warm tones and wood to black leather and grey and she hasn't quite gotten used to it yet. Does, in fact, rather hate it. More dignified, the decorator said and she feels the need to hate him, too, in retrospect.

House, meanwhile, is propped on the edge of her sleek new desk, legs stretched out before him and a large candy jar under his arm - looking suspiciously like the one that usually sits on the front desk out in the lobby. "So what else has changed - the doctors still treat the patients and not the other way around, right?"

"You didn't get the memo? Oh that's right, you don't work here anymore."

"And I never read memos even when I did."

She perches next to him on the desk. She's glad to see him, but he doesn't necessarily need to know that.

"Chase," he says, "Is incompetent."

"He's doing well."

"Of course you'd say that, you're more incompetent than he is, what do you know? He calls them by their first names!"

"And yet somehow he hasn't killed anyone so far. Or gotten sued."

"Have you seen what he's done to my office? Not as bad as what you've done to yours - still, the least you could've done was preserve it exactly as I left it, for posterity's sake."

"I'll just have to pray that history forgives me."

He frowns at her. "You want me to laugh at your jokes, you're going to have to put me back on the payroll."

"There's a chilling thought." She feigns a shudder. He rolls his eyes, better than a laugh. Her shoulder brushes his as she shifts in place. "How have you been?"

"You're a day early," he replies. "But then I've thrown your schedule into chaos by showing up, it's no wonder you're a little off." She lifts her eyebrows at him, and he grants her an explanation. "Every eight days it's a phone call, every other Tuesday or Thursday, alternating at random, it's a casual, oh-I-was-just-in-the-neighbourhood-thought-I'd-drop-by-for-a-visit. It's been two months, plenty of time to establish a pattern, even if you weren't unbelievably predictable. I'm not," he says roughly, "Your responsibility."

Except he is, and has been for so long she doesn't know what she'd do if she didn't have him always there, demanding his share of her attention. Not throw a party like she once might have thought. It would be a loss, one she doesn't want to deal with, but she doesn't know how to tell him that.

And anyway, she suspects he's already figured it out.

Tone deliberately light and not at all self-conscious, she says, "Guess I won't need to drop by tomorrow, then."

"Nope." He leaves it there for a long moment as she tries to decide whether to be annoyed at him or not. Finally he dips his head towards hers and says, "You should come over anyway."

She lets out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, and asks the question.

*

"I get bored," he confesses like he's talking about the weather. "I get lonely. You're it, Cuddy. Congratulations, an aging invalid of your very own. You can give me sponge baths and mash up my food." He waits a beat. "Be fun for me, anyway."

She looks at him, raising her head because he'll always be tall no matter how old or infirm he is, she runs her eyes over his face, his hair.

She can sympathise. Never had the children she wanted so badly, never had a relationship that stuck, and this hospital has become a cocoon she's wrapped herself in and she imagines herself sometimes, emerging years from now, an old woman with snowy hair blinking in the sun and wondering where her life went.

She thinks of catching up with old friends, how they say oh, you're still at Princeton-Plainsboro...? She thinks of her successor prying the hospital out of her cold dead hands and whether it's strange how comforting that is.

She thinks of herself ten years ago, brimming with hope and hurt. She thinks of herself ten years from now - twenty - thirty. She thinks of House as an old man and worries about who will take care of him.

"You're no spring chicken either," he points out almost defensively when she doesn't say anything - apparently she should have protested the aging invalid remark. "Even if you are holding up suspiciously well," he adds. "Come on, you can tell me now - two weeks in Barbados a few years back, you were really hiding out after having the front porch remodelled."

She laughs, this is familiar territory. "You're all talk, House. Always have been."

"Year after year, we get a new batch of med students and they all lust after you - why shouldn't I?" She's still shaking her head. "I don't? You're right. I'm just a big tease."

"You can't blame me for not trusting anything you say. I've known you too long."

He shrugs. "Sure. Except you do."

His tone is fond as if to say - I'm always right and you know it and that's what you've really learned. While it's not quite the truth, it's close enough.

She sits in her over-styled office with his hand on her sleeve and this isn't a change either of them asked for. But she couldn't save his job, couldn't save him, and what has he ever needed her for beyond that?

The thing is, she's never really been good enough for him, and if that knowledge has ever stung she's consoled herself with the fact that at least the feeling is mutual.

It's past time she let him go.

But she raises a hand, places it alongside his neck, her thumb brushing over the familiar stubbled jaw. Because neither of them will ever change, even if they should, and she wants him - has always wanted him in some small, private way. Because she wants him, and because she's been waiting for this.

"What makes you think you'll make me happy?" she wants to know, even if her mind is already set.

"I don't care if you're happy," he says. His hand moves from her sleeve, splays large and warm at her side and he's such a liar, she thinks. "If you aren't, dump my ass. Date an intern instead. Haven't you heard - younger men are trendy. "

"So you must be fashion suicide."

A huff of amusement stirs the hair at her temple. His mouth hovers there as he touches her face, the movement a mirror of her own. She leans into it, laughs, shakes her head.

Idiot, she thinks, and doesn't know if she means herself or him.

She hasn't kissed this man in such a long time. It's nothing like she remembers it.

end


End file.
